Fiona looked about her, and was startled by what she saw. Whereas the storefronts were polished and pristine, the catacombs of alleyways behind the stores was grimy and dingy. Uneven, mud-grouted stones made up the back-alley streets themselves, grass growing between the stones in the few places the sun could reach. The store backings were unpainted save for occasional graffiti scrawls; the doors set into them were of thick but coarse wood and secured with heavy locks, often more than one lock per door. The few windows were small and set up and out of the way with thick glass such as the one she had just squeezed through, or covered with black iron bars. Several trash cans and large wooden trash bins set against the buildings, the bins’ wooden frames dark, chipped, and in some cases rotting – as were, judging by the smell that drifted from them, many of their contents. Some of the cans and bins were overflowing, discarded little piles of refuse trailing beside them and spilling part-way into the street, where wagon wheels had ground the more malleable parts into the street itself. Every so often a rat could be seen scurrying among the debris.

It was as if she had not toppled through a window but rather stepped through a looking glass into some mutated, topsy-turvy world, a mockery of the glitzy, glamorous faces presented by the fronts of these same buildings.

The few people she saw were in similarly shabby shape. She saw one older man, scraggly uneven whiskers on his thin, craggy face, huddled in an unused doorway in front of a small fire, a coat of old tarnished and dented chain mail draped across his shoulders and a worn, battered helm upon his head. In another spot a group of five raggedy boys of around twelve but with the vocabulary of older, raunchier men were throwing dice against a wall.

"Are you all right, dearie? You took quite a tumble."

Fiona, startled, gave a little shriek and looked to her right. Sitting against the wall only a few feet from her was a woman of about her size and only a few years older. Unlike Fiona, she was dressed in soiled and ragged clothes. Her face had pleasant if somewhat grimy features and her hair was dirty blond – in both senses. Her legs were crossed in a double Lotus position, her hands rested on her knees with palms up and middle fingers touching her thumbs. She was looking at Fiona with concern.

"Oh!" Fiona said. "Oh, I’m fine. I –"

Then she glimpsed him again. The stranger. He was near the end of an alleyway some twenty yards away, about to turn its corner. He was walking slowly, his back to her, and he was apparently unaware of her exit from the store.

"SIR! WAIT!" Fiona shouted. He froze at the end of the alley. After a few seconds, he turned and saw her. His eyes widened, and then he quickly ducked around the end of the alley.

"NO! PLEASE!" Fiona called. She leapt to her feet and began running down the alley after him.

She was half-way down the alley when a huge burly man deliberately stepped from a doorway and into her path. Fiona bounced off his solid form with a grunt and then stood there, gawking at him for a moment. He appeared to be about thirty-five, stood over a foot taller than her, had dark surly features, scraggly black hair and beard, and wore a tattered butcher’s apron spattered in several areas with large dried bloodstains.

"HEY!" Fiona snapped. "Who do you think –"

"Whoa! Don’t be in such a hurry, now, miss," the man said, then flashed a broad, sinister grin, showcasing stained uneven teeth. "Running down alleys like that – somebody might get hurt."

Fiona glared at him. "Get out of my way," she demanded.

"My, a lass with a temper!" the man chortled. Then he looked her up and down. "And a fine looking lass at that." His eyes settled on the jeweled gold tiara atop her head. "With fine jewelry, to boot. I imagine that little trinket would fetch a pretty price on the market." Then his sinister grin took on an absolutely evil cast as he added, "As would you."

Fiona flushed with anger. She bared her teeth, and as the man started to laugh she yelled "HI-YAH!" and threw and open-palmed punch directly into his face. The heel of her hand smashed into his mouth, splitting his lip and knocking two teeth in, while her palm impacted his nose. The man gagged and reeled backwards, covering his mouth as blood spurted from his nostrils. Fiona was about to deliver a twirling kick to his solar plexus that she expected would have finished incapacitating him when she felt something whack the back of her head. Stars danced before her and she collapsed, rolling onto her back where she lay, barely conscious and suddenly with almost no control of her muscles.

Two other men suddenly stepped into the wavy starfield that currently made up her field of vision. One was about twenty-five and thin, with shabby clothes that included a worn cap from under which hung unkempt shoulder-length brown hair. His facial features were not unattractive, except that his eyes looked hard and his mouth was set in a thin, close-lipped, merciless line. In one hand he held a long wrought-iron candlestick. The other man was about fifty and somewhat short. His worn clothes included a baker’s apron and dilapidated chef’s hat that drooped limply towards the back of his head. He rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin with his left hand while in his right he held a two foot long rolling pin. Fiona assumed it was the rolling pin that struck her; had it been the heavy candlestick, she doubted she’d still be alive. All three knaves stared down at her like doctors examining a patient.

"Blasted witch broke my teeth and nose!" the man that Fiona had run into managed to whine from behind hands that covered his mouth and pinched his nostrils. The nasally restricted voice would have sounded comical but for the princess’s dire predicament.

"Good grief, Butcher, do you know what you’ve done?!" the man with the chef’s cap asked after examining Fiona more closely.

"Yes, Baker, I’ve earned us our income for a month," Butcher replied. "Just look at that headpiece!"

"I’m looking, you fool!" Baker said.

"Why’s he a fool?" the younger man asked.

"Chandler, I know you’re young, but don’t you recognize a royal tiara when you see one?" Baker said. "This is a princess! Do you realize the trouble we’re in now?!"

"Oh, chill out, old man," Butcher said. "You sound more like an old woman. This just means we can’t let her live, and we’ll have to be careful of how we dispose of her. All the places we dispose of her." Butcher then carefully removed his hand from his nose, making sure the flow of blood had been staunched. "Keep an eye on her. I’ll go get my tool."

Butcher strode out of Fiona’s field of vision. The stars dancing before her were receding, and she felt some control returning to her muscles, but her recovery was happening much too slowly.

Chandler and Baker got on their knees to either side of her and leaned over her.

"What a waste," Chandler said, a disconcerting grin breaking across his thin lips. "She looks so beautiful, like one of those idealized waxworks you see in museums, the type of art I used to aspire to make."

"Yeah, right," Baker said. "As if you had talent for such work. You couldn’t even hold your job as a simple candlestick maker!"

Chandler shrugged. "I have other talents," he said. "But I do need practice to keep them sharp, so before Butcher begins exercising his own … talents … let’s not let this opportunity go completely to waste."

"Meaning what?" Butcher asked.

"Meaning that if we can share a tub," Chandler replied, "we can certainly share her."

Chandler leered and leaned closer to Fiona. "No," she said, but her voice was a faint, helpless whimper. She managed to lift one arm and laid a hand on his chest, but she had no strength, and it did not hold him back as he pressed even closer. She could smell the reek of his breath now. She needed time. She needed strength. She needed –

Suddenly a board shattered across the back of Chandler’s head. He uttered a surprised grunt, then his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets and he tumbled, unconscious, off to Fiona’s side. Instead of staring up into his vile face, she found herself beholding the man that had dispatched him.

It was the dark-haired stranger.

He was standing above her, the remains of a plank from one of the trash bins in his hands, broken where it had smashed against Chandler’s skull. He was looking down at her with intense concern.

"WHAT THE –" Baker stammered, then leapt to his feet. He swung the rolling pin at the stranger’s head. The stranger ducked away from it while simultaneously dropping the remains of the plank, then in one smooth motion recoiled back at Baker’s off-balance form, throwing a powerful right cross that caught Baker square on the chin and sent him toppling to the street, as unconscious as his cohort.

The stranger looked down on the prostrate males below him and allowed himself a brief, satisfied little smile. But he quickly turned to Fiona, and his face instantly returned to that intensely concerned expression it had before. He approached her and knelt beside her. The sun was near its midday position, and as the stranger leaned over her it shown from just behind his head, making it appear as if the man’s head was surrounded by a halo, like a Heaven-sent hero. He held one hand down for her. She stared up at his glowing form for a moment, and then tentatively lifted a hand up to take his, the simple action seeming to require all her strength.

Suddenly all of the sunlight was blotted out as a huge dark shape appeared behind the kneeling man. A moment later Fiona recognized that shape as Butcher. He glared down at the stranger, who was still concentrating on Fiona, and then Butcher lifted his right arm, whose hand clutched a foot long meat cleaver.

Fiona stared up at Butcher, her face twisted in horror. "LOOK OUT!" she managed to scream.

The stranger’s eyes grew wide, and then he reacted, falling to the ground and rolling away as Butcher swung the cleaver, barely missing the head that was there a split-second before.

The stranger came out of his roll in a crouching position. Butcher, who stood nearly a foot taller, sneered at him and raised his cleaver again. The stranger cast about for a weapon, but the best his eyes fell upon with such little time was Baker’s discarded rolling pin. He grabbed it and lifted it in a defensive position just as Butcher struck. The stranger was able to deflect the blow, but Butcher’s strength knocked the rolling pin from his hands and sent him sprawling off-balance and crashing into a trio of trash cans which toppled with him, sounding a metallic clatter as their lids came off and they spilled their contents onto the street. Butcher pursued, and again lifted the cleaver, taking aim on his helplessly supine opponent. The stranger again desperately looked about him, then quickly reached over and grabbed one of the trash can lids by its handle. He swung it up just as the butcher swung down. There was a loud clang as the blade struck the lid. Butcher paused to curse, which gave the stranger time to kick out with one foot, catching Butcher in the stomach and sending him staggering backwards. Butcher uttered a fresh set of oaths, but did not go down. The stranger struggled to his feet, saw where the rolling pin had fallen, and grabbed it. Then he struck a pose, his left arm extended and holding the trash can lid out like a shield, his right hand holding the rolling pin nearer his body by one handle, the other handle pointing at Butcher. To Fiona the stranger looked like an absurd if heroic parody of a knightly prince, set to defend a helpless maiden from the onslaught of a beastly … ogre. Well, Butcher was no ogre. And the stranger was no prince.

"And I’m no … not helpless," Fiona muttered as she struggled to a sitting position. Her head throbbed and her muscles screamed protests. But they were obeying her. Weakly, still. But obeying.

Meanwhile, Butcher swung again. The stranger caught the blow with the lid and channeled Butcher’s follow-through to the side while simultaneously thrusting out with the rolling pin, catching Butcher in the stomach and causing him to utter a guttural ‘oof’. But the blow enraged Butcher more than it harmed him, and he threw a punch with his left hand, catching the stranger on the chin and sending him stumbling backwards. Butcher swung again with the cleaver, the stranger recovering just in time to catch it with his ‘shield’.

The two continued their swing/parry/thrust contest for several seconds, Butcher forcing the stranger further back each time. Meanwhile, Fiona took a deep breath and drew herself up into a standing position, which she then held on wobbly knees, trying to channel strength back into her legs through sheer force of will while she watched the continuing battle before her.

Butcher maneuvered the stranger to within three feet of a brick wall. The stranger made a mistimed thrust with his rolling pin, which Butcher quickly countered with a quick cleaver chop that neatly sliced off the rolling pin just a couple of inches from where the stranger held it. The stranger was stunned into momentary surprise, which was long enough for Butcher to charge him, throwing his full weight against the lid and driving the stranger hard into the wall. The back of the stranger’s head struck the bricks; he uttered a groan of pain and dropped the lid as he seemed to lapse into semi-consciousness, barely maintaining his feet. "Ah-ha!" Butcher exclaimed in triumph as he clutched the stranger’s throat with his left hand and pressed him against the wall. Butcher drilled him with a malevolent glare, and then drew back the cleaver in his right as he prepared to strike the final, fatal blow.

The blow never fell. There was another hi-pitched "HI-YAH!" as Fiona’s foot struck Butcher’s hand, knocking the cleaver from it.

"OW!" Butcher cried in pain and surprise as Fiona landed beside him. But the leaping kick had taken all of her recovered strength. She stumbled, and then began to collapse. Her collapse was arrested, however, as the enraged Butcher spat "Why you little –", seized Fiona’s throat in his massive right hand – which was unfortunately still quite serviceable – and then squeezed. Her eyes bulged, her face flushed red, and her tongue began to loll outward. She would have gagged, but her airway was too constricted even for that. Butcher smiled as he began to lift her off the ground.

The stranger, seeing what was happening, suddenly managed to shake off the dregs of semi-consciousness. He slapped Butcher’s left arm away and then swiftly drew his own right arm back and threw a powerful haymaker punch that caught Butcher full on the jaw just as the villain turned back towards him. Butcher’s head snapped to his right as teeth flew out. By reflex Butcher released his grip on Fiona’s throat and she fell to a heap on the ground, where she began coughing and taking deep gasps of precious air. Meanwhile, the stranger, fury in his eyes, followed up his first punch with a left cross that smashed into Butcher’s face. Blood was again pouring from the villain’s mouth and nose. The stranger then launched a right hook to where Butcher’s abdomen met his ribcage. There was an audible crack, followed by a shriek from Butcher, who began to double over. That movement, however, only aided the impact made with the stranger’s fist as he threw a left uppercut. Butcher snapped upward into a fully erect posture, teetered there for a moment, and then toppled forward like a great felled tree, face-first onto the hard street.

Both the stranger, now huffing and puffing with anger, effort, and adrenalin, fisted hands clenching and unclenching, and the princess, who was still sitting on the street and who had finally managed to catch her breath, stared down at Butcher’s battered form for several seconds. The prone body didn’t move, but eventually uttered a plaintive moan.

The stranger and the princess slowly lifted their gaze from Butcher as they sought out each other. Their eyes locked yet again, and Fiona, who had just been gasping for air, felt her breath stop again. Her heartbeat, which had been receding after the physical activity, began increasing. The stranger, his eyes trained on her, stepped over Butcher and up to where he stood just before her. They stared at each other for a few moments more, and then the stranger held out his right hand. She shifted her gaze reluctantly from his face to his hand, regarded it as some mysterious object, and then blinked her eyes, recomposing herself. She then took his right hand with her left and allowed him to assist her to her feet. Her head no longer felt heavy and throbbing. In fact, it felt rather light.

They now stood before each other. She looked back at his face, but saw he was not returning the look in kind. Instead, his eyes were still trained upon her left hand, which still rested in his right; her left hand with the discolored area around her ring finger where her wedding band used to be. Its absence seemed to trigger an odd reaction in his features; he seemed … distressed somehow. Whyever should that be? She must be misreading him. But he continued staring at her hand. Was he wondering if she was available?

Are you wondering the same about him? Fiona heard that rational part of her mind reproach her.

Fiona suddenly jerked her hand away from his. He finally shifted his gaze back to her eyes. He looked even more forlorn than before. Fiona found herself starting to lose herself in those brown eyes, felt herself starting to melt, felt herself starting to lean gently forward, felt her lips starting to part ...

What are you DOING?! her rational mind slapped her back to reality.

"Ah!" Fiona sputtered, blinking, feeling as if she’d had cold water thrown into her face. His expression now showed some confusion. No doubt he was wondering what was going on in her mind. If he only knew, she thought.

But he mustn’t know. Fiona licked her lips. The man had just saved her life, and she hadn’t even thanked him yet. She must do so. He had rescued a princess, and so she must address him accordingly. It was no doubt what he was expecting, and it gave her a mask to hide behind, however thin.

"Kind sir," Fiona said, her voice sweet and modulated. "I thank thee from the bottom of my heart for thy most … incredibly … brave and valiant actions in dispatching those … most vile ruffians and … rescuing me. Thy deed is great, and thine heart is pure."

Somehow, her voice did not seem to placate him. If anything, he seemed yet more distressed. Fiona felt frustrated. What was she doing wrong? And why hadn’t he spoken to her?

"Kind sir," she began again. "Didst thou not wish to address me? Tell me, what weighs so heavily on thy mind?"

The man opened his mouth as if to say something, then checked himself. He focused again on her eyes, and then closed his mouth. He sadly shook his head then cast his own eyes downward.

Fiona stared at him, bewildered. Then a thought struck her. "Art thou mute? Beist that thy affliction?"

He looked back up at her. He still appeared morose, but almost seemed on the verge of chuckling despite that. Instead he shrugged, and then nodded.

Fiona felt better. She had finally made a correct deduction. Now she just needed to find out why he had been following her and looking at her the way he had. "Brave sir," she said. "I saw thee other times today beholding me with … such downcast visage. Is there a way thou couldst let me know why that was, and if there beist anything within my power to assist thee?"

The man shook his head sadly and looked down again. He seemed as sad as if … another thought suddenly struck Fiona. "Is it a lost love?" she ventured. "Someone thou hast loved who bore a semblance to myself?"

His eyes darted back up towards her. His lower lip began to tremble, and he bit it. He nodded, confirming her deduction. Fiona mentally congratulated herself for diagnosing his pain. Now she might be able to provide some comfort.

"Prithee, despair not," she said. Then, remembering her long infatuation with the idealized image of her prince charming, she said, "I, too, thought myself in love once, a love I thought wouldst last forever." Her thoughts turned then to Shrek, the ogre who rescued her, and with whom she had found such fulfillment. She smiled and continued, "But then I found I was wrong. I found my True Love, and realized my previous feelings were foolish and immature. Now I’ve discovered true happiness with my –" Fiona checked herself. She was about to say ‘ogre’. But that would no longer be accurate. Instead, having to work to maintain the enthusiasm in her voice, she concluded, "– with my blond, blue-eyed, handsome prince."

By the stranger’s reaction, Fiona realized that her attempt to provide consolation had somehow gone horribly astray. His eyes suddenly began to glisten, and his lower lip quivered again. He began to turn away to his right. Fiona’s left hand shot out, and she laid it firmly against his broad right cheek. The physical contact sent an immediate and disconcerting charge through her system which she tried to ignore. "Oh, I pray thee, turn not away!" she said. Since he had seemed most upset at her mentioning of her ‘handsome prince’, she said, "Thou art most handsome as well! Many comely maidens shall find thee so, I am sure. Amongst them, thou willst surely find thine own True Love to replace the foolish wench that hast broken thy brave heart."

The stranger looked back at her, an odd but still sad smile gracing his lips. He then lifted his right hand and laid it tenderly on her left one as it caressed his cheek. A tear dropped from his right eye, which she softly brushed away with her thumb. A tear then fell from his left eye and began rolling down that cheek. She reached up with her right hand, laid it on that cheek, and wiped away that tear. She stood like that for several seconds, holding both his cheeks with her hands, staring into the deep glistening pools of his eyes.

"I … I’m sure, if Heaven be just, that thou shalt find someone else … worthy of thee … as a reward for thy … heroism."

Fiona felt the sudden urge to pull his face closer, to kiss away the tracks of those tears of woe from his cheeks, to kiss those beautiful eyes that beheld her more as a goddess than a princess, to kiss his soft, quivering lips, to wrap her arms around him and pull him closer to her, tighter to her, harder to her. She felt a fire starting to burn in her blood, and she knew that her ‘princess veneer’ was about to crack.

Summoning her last bit of willpower just before it could be overcome by her rapidly building desire, she released his face and took a couple of stumbling steps backwards. As she drew away from him, he reflexively reached one hand out towards her, as if beckoning her back. But he halted its action, and then let his arm drop listlessly to his side. His head bowed again, and his shoulder slumped.

"I … I … I’m sorry," she stammered, trying to suppress the trembling she felt start to tug at her muscles. "But I … I must be returning to my prince … lest he fret for my absence."

The stranger frowned, but nodded.

"Yes, well, um, again, I really am so in thy debt, perhaps at a later date you could visit us at the castle, and we could reward your gallantry properly –"

He glumly shook his head.

"But kind sir, I must do something for … Oh! Here!" Fiona undid her necklace, from which hung a heart-shaped pendant, and then held it out to him. She cleared her throat, trying to steady herself, and then said, "I pray thee, take this favor as a token of my gratitude."

Yet again, an odd look of pained irony played upon the man’s features. He looked at the pendant, began to reach for it, but then drew his hand back. Then he slowly shook his head.

"Please!" Fiona insisted, thrusting it forward.

He shook his head with a bit more vehemence.

"Very well," Fiona sighed with frustration, and then re-fastened the necklace around her throat. That done, she beheld him again. "But please, if there beist anything thou ever needst, anything at all, please do not hesitate to come to the castle and ask it. Just tell them – I mean, let them know … let them know that … that …" a little grin creased her lips as an idea struck her. "That ‘The Silent Knight’ would like an audience with the princess."

A wry but still sad smile creased his own lips, and then he shrugged.

Fiona giggled, and the sound seemed to affect the stranger. It appeared to lighten his countenance briefly, but then a wispy, far-off look came to his eyes. His countenance fell again, and he looked as morose as before.

Fiona’s laughter died uncomfortably away and her eyes drifted shyly to the cobblestones below. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Fiona forced herself to look back up at him. "Willst I ever see thee again?" she asked.

The stranger closed his eyes, heaved a great sigh, paused for a moment, and then opened his eyes again. He shook his head.

"Oh," Fiona said, trying to keep her voice from betraying the depths of her disappointment. "Well, then, this is it." Fiona cleared her throat, and tried to summon her most imperial and emotionally neutral tone as she said, "I thank thee again, brave and noble sir, for your most heroic service today. I am forever in thy debt. Fare thee well, my rescuer."

He gazed at her with an expression like that of a newly bereaved widower looking upon his dead wife’s face one last time at her funeral. It sent chills through Fiona, but this time they weren’t chills of desire. She took a couple of more steps backwards, then turned and began walking away. Within a few feet she began trotting, suddenly anxious to be away from these wretched, violent alleys, the strange, brave, mysterious dark-haired man, and the confusing, awkward, desirous, and perfidious way he made her feel. Still, she could sense a virtual, uncomfortable warmth in her back where she knew he was staring at her, not with any malevolent thoughts, but simply to make sure she reached safety. An unbidden guardian angel, who was surely bearing more fidelity to her than her own inner thoughts and emotions were to her husband right then. She flushed with shame, and quickened her pace.